


Passions Over Coco

by Socket



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7198304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Socket/pseuds/Socket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s built all her assumptions on other people’s fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passions Over Coco

**Timeline:** Set during ‘Checkpoint’ – Season 5

She’s afraid of him but he was always sweet to her. She’s built all her assumptions on other people’s fear. He couldn’t hurt her even if he tried, and when he had the opportunity, when he was bad, he hadn’t harmed her – had sobbed his heart out over hot chocolate and marshmallows. 

She’d seen it, even then. His heart. Like a beacon. So easy to bruise, that’s why she always felt the urge to protect him. He may have been a killer, once. But so was Angel… and everyone seems willing to give him redemption – why not Spike? 

His crypt is cold. Cold and dark. Damp seems to be creeping up the walls, seeping through everything as if it were alive. But he makes it comfortable, makes space for her and Dawn as Buffy goes off to fight the villain of the week. 

They bond over _‘Passions’_ , converse over coco, talk about how people’s ideals have changed since their time and he smirks at her like they share a secret, and she’s not sure what it is, this secret, but she likes the feeling it creates. Like electricity. 

Dawn is soon asleep and behind an oriental partition, Joyce slips into her own night attire. She’s sure he’s not watching. She hears the blare of the TV. She emerges from behind the partition and searches her bag for a hairbrush, deep cleansing lotion and cotton pads. 

She cleanses her face, uses moisturiser, removes her headscarf and begins brushing her hair: he watches her from across the room. He sees the scar where medical science has left its mark. She becomes conscious of his eyes on her, feels flustered. She moves to put the headscarf back on, cover-up the evidence of her human frailty. 

Within an instant he is beside her, his speed scares her. His eyes are burning and she feels nervous as he leans towards her. He reaches out, touches her skin, where her hair was shaved for surgery. He doesn’t speak, just runs his finger along the healing wound. 

She holds her breath, then says quickly. “I know… I know – it’s ugly, but my hair will grow back, the doctors keep telling me that I - ” 

“No,” he says and his voice is gentle. “It’s beautiful,” he says genuinely. 

She looks confused. “You’re kidding, right?” 

He draws back, pulls a cigarette from nowhere and lights it. “It’s a part of you, a part of your history – you should wear it like a trophy – let everyone know – this thing tried to take you from your family, from yourself… and you beat it, Joyce, you survived and you have the wound to prove it.” 

Joyce smiles, sometimes she thinks that mixed in with all that rage and violence is real poetry and no one completely devoid of a soul can have poetry within them. 

She tucks the headscarf into her bag and then checks on Dawn, curled-up and asleep on a tombstone that’s a makeshift bed. She strokes the long dark hair that belongs to her daughter. Knows this isn’t really her daughter, but then, nothing is as it seems anymore. She doesn’t take anything for granted. Tries to make decisions on the here and now, sometimes she feels like she’s on borrowed time, like the surgery was just a delay – that all this could still be taken away. And she hates that ‘edge’ feeling. Hates the idea of not being here to protect her girls, not see Dawn grow-up, not have… just that. Not have. 

He approaches her with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, hands it to her. She accepts it and watches him sip at a cup of blood. 

They both look down at Dawn. 

“Sleeps like the dead,” he says. 

Joyce feels a brief pang. “Like a baby,” she corrects. 

Spike seems annoyed. “You say ‘To-may-toe’ – I say ‘To-mar-toe’.” 

She smiles hesitantly, then moves towards the couch. Spike follows her, sits in the chair nearest to her. He sips at his cup of blood. She tries not to cringe every time he takes a gulp. He might be a vampire but he is their host and she doesn’t want to offend him. 

He watches her trying to be polite out of the corner of his eye. He can’t help but smile; she is the only one who would be quiet for fear of insulting him – the Scooby gang would have made some flip comment, possibly confiscated his drink, but not Joyce: she has class. 

Spike glances over at her, she looks cold. “Do you want a blanket or something?” He offers. 

Joyce looks flustered, as if she’s been caught out, but the cold gets the better of her. “If it’s not too much trouble.” 

He grins. “For the Slayer’s mother? No trouble at all.” 

He sets his drink down, stands and fetches a blanket from his tomb. He unfolds it and drapes it across Joyce’s slender form. He crouches beside her and tucks the sides in, his face inches from hers as he does so. She turns her head sideways, her loose curls brush against his cheek. 

She can smell his cologne, wonders what brand it is. 

Spike draws back from her. “There.” 

She smiles. “Thanks.” 

He sits alongside her on the couch. Her legs stretching past him. He places a hand either side of her hips and leans in, but not too close. She seems surprised by this move. 

“Can I ask you something, Joyce?” He inquires. 

She nods, feeling funny about the way he says her name. “Sure.” 

He’s looking directly into her eyes. “How do you do it?” 

She looks at him quizzically. “Do what?” 

Spike lowers his voice, and says in a conspiratorial tone. “You raised a Slayer and ‘the Key’, run a gallery and still have time to cook dinner – and, might I add, look mighty fine whilst doing it.” 

Joyce laughs. Spike watches her, fascinated. 

“I read a lot of self-help books.” She shrugs and then adds. “Then I threw them out and decided to wing it.” 

He grins. “That’s what I like about you – you’ve got balls!” 

She looks thoughtful. 

Spike’s grin drops and he hurriedly says. “I didn’t mean literally – obviously. I meant… metaphorically.” 

Joyce nods and holds back a smile. “I figured that.” 

He leans back. She reaches across to the table to get her hot chocolate, she can’t quite reach, so Spike picks up the cup and holds it out to her. She smiles gratefully at him and as she takes it, their fingers touch. Electricity. She moves her hand quickly away, he looses grip on the cup and it spills onto the blanket. 

“Oh no!” She cries. 

“Sorry!” He sighs. 

They both stand up, wide-eyed and breathless with surprise. She draws the blanket up to look at the hot chocolate stain; she looks about for a cloth but can’t see any. She looks at him apologetically. “I’ve ruined it, sorry.” 

Spike reaches out and covers her left hand, which is holding the blanket. Her skin is hot to touch and he feels her pulse quicken. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. 

She stares at him, he’s still holding her hand, there’s little room between them and the darkness seems to be crowding in on her. 

He grips the wrist of her other hand and pulls her to him: she doesn’t resist. They gaze at each other for a moment. She frees one of her hands and reaches up to cup his face and then he pulls her into a kiss. 

A cry interrupts them. They pull away from each other, the blanket drops to the floor. They turn to face the noise. Dawn stirs violently in her sleep, lets out another cry and then sits-up, wide-awake. 

“Mom?” 

Joyce rushes over to her youngest. “It’s okay, honey. I’m here.” She hugs Dawn in comfort, starts rocking Dawn and stroking her hair, until she calms down from her nightmare. 

Spike balls up the blanket and sits on the sofa, facing Joyce and Dawn. He draws the blanket close to him; it has Joyce’s perfume on it. He watches her comforting Dawn and knows he’s in trouble, because all he can think about is how much he wants Joyce.


End file.
